


Lifted Up Our Longing Eyes

by ix_tab



Series: Destiny, If There Is Such A Thing (Golden Lovers AU fics) [1]
Category: Professional Wrestling, 新日本プロレス | New Japan Pro-Wrestling
Genre: Golden Lovers, I have no idea where this came from, M/M, but here we are, wrestling as mythology
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-08-12
Packaged: 2019-06-26 08:09:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15659211
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ix_tab/pseuds/ix_tab
Summary: Their story is unfinished but I can't help but tell the parts I've learned from pieces here and there, from the words of others.Please, sit and listen for a moment.Once upon a time, love happened.





	Lifted Up Our Longing Eyes

**Author's Note:**

> Uh, I guess I wrote sort of a fairytale, sort of a fable, sort of a fantastical oral history? 
> 
> Hey, here's something that isn't in the canon of my other Golden Lovers fics!
> 
> Title from Eluveitie's ' The Call Of The Mountains'

Once upon a time there was a golden boy, a prince, destined to be star, said the soothsayers and prophecies.

He came from a long line of wealth and power, he was on the road to success, to legend before he took his first step

And the boy, one of our story's heroes, said, “No. The only footsteps I will walk in will be my own. I will be no man’s legacy, I will find my own way.”

Off he strode, determined to carve a path that no one could predict. But though he rejected destiny, his feet were alight with his innate power and strength. He would be a force to be reckoned with, but could he find his way to reach the lofty heights people wanted, foresaw for him?

 

Once upon a time, in another place, a boy was born and he strove.

He was talented to be sure, and he worked himself to the bone.

No one shone a light upon his birth, no one shouted his names from the rooftops to herald the birth of a king but everyone who met him thought, this child will go far. This child could be something extraordinary.

But this boy looked at the road his hard work would take him, and it led into controlled monotony, destruction of his own creativity. He could not make and mould himself, he would have to bow to other’s wills.

It would be better to be nothing, to destroy his dreams, to strike his name from the pages of history then to be a footnote in the machine of industry.

And in his despair, he cast around for anything to lift him out, and he found scrolls and whispers about this golden prince, this maverick star that wandered his homeland, causing havoc and the people loving him for it.

Our other hero, naming himself after the end of all things, was determined.

He would test his mettle against this chaotic being, this strange spirit. He sensed, through simple paper and ink, through sketches, through visions shown to him in copper bowls of spring water. The world denies him a destiny? No. This man was his destiny.

 

Once upon a time, our heroes meet in a glorious battle, and it is glorious indeed.

Blood is spilled, swords and shields cast away for the sheer delight of laying hand on flesh, to rend and tear at one other. They move like light and shadow, sunlight shot through a stream on midday. It is messy and explosive, and the people around them scream and yell and cheer.

Our warriors lay down, the prince having defeated the end of all things, and he said ‘Be with me.” The end of all things, a bright, tender soul with more emotion then his young body could contain said ‘yes’.

The heroes of this tale have many names and titles, but for ease, we will call them Kenny and Kota, because that is what they called each other. And this is a story about two men, beyond the legend they created together and apart.

It is about love in the purest and most vicious sense, love that hurts and heals, love that destroys and recreates, reborn into something quite different, and stronger.

 

Once upon a time, the heroes fell apart and then came back together, healing and reforging. Kota kindled the fire and Kenny, the self made man became strong enough with love beside him that he cast down one of the era's greatest heroes.

That hero, the bringer of rains, has a tale unto himself. I will save that for another time.

Kenny, now a champion, had fought bloody tooth and nail for the gold slung around his body, looking to make a name for himself, finds that no matter what, the shadows of the great ones loom over him. How to be something unique when those in front of you and those behind are so immense.

Kota, beside him, refusing to deviate from his own ideals, no matter how difficult that proved. The lights stretch out as far as they liked, he would walk through the forest because he made his choices by instinct, by will.

His will had reunited our two heroes, split apart by circumstance and by Kenny’s fear and doubt. In the face of Kota’s will, those doubts faded, the fear abated.

The people cheered and for a while, it seemed like they could do anything together.

But though their strength was unforeseen, and without precedence...they could not take their places as high as they both yearned.

 

Once upon a time, one of our heroes asks something of the other.

On a dark night, as they lay in silence, warm and safe in each other’s embrace, Kota asks ‘Will you help me kill God?’

Kenny is stunned.

Kenny holds with no gods or kings. He cannot because his name was not among them. Instead of bowing to them, he defies them.

Kota’s name had been inscribed alongside them, a prince, a legacy ready to be formed, and he had taken chisel and hammer to remove it. But, despite that, despite it all, Kenny knows Kota believes in the gods and rulers, the paragons of virtue and strength.

He would stand among them, but only if he could carve the foundation himself.

And now, he wanted Kenny beside him, on the same pedestal.

“But you love God,” Kenny says carefully.

Kota turns to him, breath touching his face, warm and soft with one another on this summer’s eve.

“I do, I love God. But I will not be God. I will surpass God. And for that, God must die.”

 

Now, God is written into this land’s blood and bones. His name on the tongues of the people, carved into their hearts. God lifts people up from their tired, quiet lives and fills them with ecstasy. God is loving, kind and strict. God is magnificent, a miracle, the universe's blessing and ace.

Forged in the crucible of the earth, fire and metal, this God rose up and the people pray to him for his benevolence. He graciously gives it.

 

“I have always wanted to be better than God. I have always wanted to stand toe to toe with him. I wanted him to look me in my mortal face and tell me that I have beaten him,” Kenny says, softly. He has fought many gods, many heroes, legends. He has not always come out unscarred.

His battles have nearly cost him everything. His pride had cost him, for so long, his love and he had turned his heart into coal to escape the pain.

But coal, under pressure, under heat, transforms. He had saved Kota from violence, unable, even at his worst, to bear to see the one he loved in true peril.

And like clockwork, like the destiny they both tried to fight, Kota had come to him, in his hour of need.  

He placed hands on his back, holding him, tears dripping on his shoulder and Kenny had felt his heart become diamond.

“I understand. For me, I saw God and I knew that he wanted me with him. And no matter what, I could not let myself be pulled into his influence. He would make me in his image, and I would be powerful and true, I would be honest and upright and wonderful.”

Kenny catches his breath, thinking about Kota’s bathed in God’s light. He would be beautiful and terrifying. And he would not be Kota.

“And that is why God must die. He will not take me, nor bend me to his kindness nor unmake what and who I am. I love God and I will have his blood on my hands and face and chest. I will smear it upon you and you will shine with me,” Kota says.

He takes Kenny in his arms, face alight with a fearsome power. Kenny laughs, because his monstrous, beautiful lover is astounding, is amazing.

“Every failure hurts. You and I have done this before,” Kenny says.

Our records tell us this, etchings and paintings on parchment, sketched with a careful hand. After each true loss, both men fell into despair, in their own ways. Kenny is recorded as becoming harsh towards himself and others, the pain beyond what he could contain.

Kota’s responses are less documented, and historians can only conclude that it is because Kota left the places and people who hurt him.

Kota shakes his head this time. Rejects their past actions, determined to break the pattern.

“We may fail. We may fail a hundred times. But I won’t let you fall to the dark, and you must not let me fade. We are each other’s greatest weaknesses and greatest strengths. Let us truly embrace it.”

Kenny laughs, and then the tale becomes hard to piece together. Storytellers can be unexpectedly prudish, but I would strive to do them justice, if I could. One account, hidden in a dark safe place for centuries says:

‘And then they lay down, back in the dark, tasting each other’s lips and skin. It was nothing unusual but perhaps this decision made it something more, because in the morning, a passerby is recorded as saying that they were bruised and gleeful, holding hands, unashamed of the bitemarks adorning one another. They wore these marks prouder then anyone else did of their finery, jewels and precious metals. They found one another more valuable then any treasure’

 

Once upon a time, two lovers take to the forge and begin to remove parts of themselves. Their golden skin and hair, their blood and bone, their beating hearts.

Was it magic, or just will that left them standing, healed from their sacrifices? We cannot know. They poured themselves into the bright fire and prayed, not to God, but to one another.

On the 12th day, the forge shattered, and they were both left dismayed and horrified. Their work, their craft! They knew that God had few weaknesses and soon it would be years before they could strike again.

But in the dying coals and brittle metal lay a golden spear. It was too bright to look at for anyone else, but to these men, it was inert and simple. It was no mighty legendary thing, it was just power.

Power would be the deciding factor then, but it was power born from them both. What is God in the face of love so strong it could take mundane and make it divine?

“I will call it the Godkiller, and we shall both hold it aloft and then drive it into God’s beautiful, gleaming bronzed breast,” Kota says, and Kenny kisses him on the face, once, twice, three times, a blessing.

“Are you sure you want to kill God? Gods come and go, gods wither and pass into memory. Gods diminish and gods change. We have other paths we can take, nothing is set in stone,” Kenny says. Kota turns to him and places the Godkiller in his hands.

Their child hungers to profane the divine.

“You are right, of course. There are so many ways to become something more. We’ve both been offered ways before, but denied them because we wanted to be the ink and the parchment and the scribe. God’s blood is the ink, the spear is the quill and our bodies the parchment,” Kota says.

 

(A possibly unkind translation has been found of their great tale that suggests storytellers have gifted both our heroes with smoother and far more grandiose speech then they could have had in their real lives.

But the whole truth has nothing to do with the art of a story, so strike that from the record.)

 

“Kenny, we could become gods, of course. This is one way this ends. But instead of gods, I want to be a star.”

“How is a star better then a god?” Kenny asks, but he knows the answer, he knows it hard and deep before he’s finished speaking.

‘Gods do diminish and change. Their stories, their power is at the mercy of others. Even our current God, beautiful and beloved as he is, is held aloft by only the people’s will. And I love the people, and they love us. But I would not be at their mercy.”

 

Once upon a time, the boy who would not be king said ‘I would be a star. I want to be something that others can’t conceive of, can’t control. And when my time comes, I want to explode, I want to warp space and time around me. And I will be resplendent and untouchable.”

Kenny gives him back the spear, holds his shoulders and looks him dead in the eyes, blue meeting warm brown, knowing and needing it all to be true.

“Kota, it would be my honor to reach supernova with you. Let’s destroy the world, recreate it into something so very different. Let us make God mortal.”

And hand in hand, wearing Kota’s colours that were also his, Kenny strode into battle beside him.

Kota held the spear aloft and Kenny steadied his hand, making sure his aim was true.

 

Once upon a time, two men failed to kill God.

This we know.

The people rejoiced but also wept for the golden star and his lover, because they felt this love that some thought was miraculous and some heretical. And this is where this moment in this tale ends.

 

But what we do have? We have their other stories, too numerous to keep a track of.

Their images are saved in libraries and dungeons, painted on walls, passed around in books and spoken of in awe and shock, in disbelief.

Their words, their deeds did not start with an attempt to kill God and they certainly did not end there. 

What do we have? Knowledge.

We know that they continued on, bruised but unbroken.

After all, love is stronger that loss or sorrow, or God, looking down on them with knowing eyes.

They would tilt at him again, separate and together.

 

In the hearts and minds of those who watched them, and continued to, for the years they lived, the stories about them grew and grew.

I could not pick out fact from fiction and I do not care to.

After all, what is a story without a few twists and turns?

Why shred it apart, when we can find new meaning, when we relearn from the retelling, from the ways the stories are told? From each of our minds, we take their story and we understand it a little differently. Love is understood by each and every person, and each and every person is unique.

So is how we view love. I have seen love in a myriad of forms in my years, but a love that is fought for seems dear and sweet to me.

So I tell this story.

 

I do not know how their tale ends, if their golden spear ever struck true, or if they found new gods to slay.

But two stars are in the sky where, according to the ancients, there was only darkness. So maybe, in a story yet to be found they became more then their mortal forms.

Maybe they didn’t need to kill god, maybe they continued to find new and different ways.

Maybe they feasted on sacred flesh.

Maybe the stars are there as a cautionary tale, a warning for those who would deny their fate or reach beyond what is pre determined.

 

I like to think they made it up there, somehow, someway, and these are the words I speak around the fire, to the gathering of my small audiences.

 

Once upon a time two people fell in love and it changed everything, it changed the world.


End file.
